Collide
by trufflemores
Summary: First installment of a new 'verse, featuring Cheerio!Kurt and nerd!Blaine in an unreformed McKinley (aka a universe where Glee club never took off). Klaine. WIP.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

"Whoo-hoo, that's ten points for Puck!"

Kurt looked over just in time to see a flash of red before it disappeared inside the dumpster, his Cheerios bag thumping to a halt at his hip as he froze mid-step in the parking lot. It shouldn't have compelled him to stop – he rarely did, disdaining the entire school to beneath his interests most days – but something about the _clang _as the lid came down over the trash bin made him pause.

If he didn't hurry, then he'd be late for Cheerios practice. To compound his difficulties, Coach Sylvester had tonsillitis – but as she had already proved throughout the day with her stormy _I will destroy you _glares and singularly cutting hand gestures, she hadn't lost any of her ability to command. Quinn would step in as captain to lead the Cheerios through their routines while Coach Sylvester watched, and anyone that was late would be subjected to laps, bottom-of-the-pyramid status, or worse.

Decision made, Kurt turned briskly on his heel and had already taken three steps towards the field when he heard Puckerman snicker, "Have fun getting the milk out, Anderson! Maybe that'll teach you not to gel so much."

Kurt closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath for strength, mentally running through his options – head for the field _now _and narrowly avoid being late, or detour and definitely be late – before backtracking rapidly.

Puckerman was still laughing when Kurt put a hand on his shoulder and slammed him against the side of the bin, demanding, "What the _hell _is wrong with you?"

"Ease up, Hummel," Puckerman said, rolling his eyes and pushing Kurt back, eyes dancing for a fight. "You really wanna rescue that nobody?"

"He's a person," Kurt snapped. Sensing the growing tensions in the group – Puckerman was the head, but Ryder and Jake wouldn't hesitate to step in if things turned south – Kurt stepped back with a visible relaxation of his shoulders, attempting to convey neutrality. "And he's my lab partner for the next two weeks."

He didn't know where the lie came from, but Puckerman laughed at the absurdity of the notion, breaking the tension. "Here I thought you were a lone wolf," Puckerman sneered. "Finally joined the rest of us mortals, huh?"

"Football starts in fifteen," Jake chimed in helpfully, arms folded across his chest. "We should head over now if we don't want to be late. Beiste has been benching players that are late repeatedly."

_But not for bagging nerds in the trash before practice,_ Kurt reflected, staring Puckerman down – he knew that switchblade that Puck kept in his back pocket wasn't legal on school grounds, but he wasn't afraid of it, either – before Puck shook his head and turned his back, calling out snidely, "Have fun fishing your lab partner out!"

Waiting until they were three-quarters across the parking lot to ensure that they didn't turn on _him _and toss him in the bin as well, Kurt drew in a deep breath before turning slowly to address his new problem.

_So late, _he thought mournfully, sparing a last glance at the football field. Easing the lid up carefully, half-fearing what he would find, Kurt wasn't at all surprised to see that it was, indeed, Blaine Anderson, bow tie extraordinaire, covered in a surprisingly colorful concoction of leftovers.

"Hi!" he greeted, feigning ignorance as he added, "What are you doing?"

Kurt's nose scrunched at the smell, immediate and repugnant, and for a moment he almost let the lid clap shut again to scramble off to Cheerios practice. Deciding that that would be unusually cruel even for him, Kurt turned his head aside to diffuse some of the smell and said stiffly, "Get out."

Anderson didn't need any further encouragement – he scrambled out of the bin, carefully picking his way over trash. Despite the appalling smell clinging to his clothes and hair, he still wore a smile as Kurt let the lid crash down, cutting off the worst of the stench.

Able to take him in without wanting to gag from the fumes, Kurt couldn't help but be intrigued by the clingy red pants and black shirt combo, a multi-colored bow tie and dented pair of yellow sunglasses capping off the look. "You're a walking advertisement. _Look at me, I'm a nerd,_" Kurt said, his tone betraying slightly more disgust than intended as he kept his voice pointedly flat.

Unalarmed, Anderson shrugged, straightened his shoulders, and replied, "Hi, Pot. I'm Kettle."

It took Kurt a beat – and only just – to register the quip, his eyes narrowing briefly in response before he shook his head. "Come with me," he said at last.

Anderson cheerfully obliged, silent but patient as he followed Kurt across the lot and down into the locker room. His smile faded a little once the doors clattered shut behind them, the rows of metal lockers looming in front of them.

Kurt didn't waste a moment to let him adjust: the lockers were football and Cheerio territory, no one else's, and should a football player emerge, even Kurt wasn't about to stop him from shoving Anderson into a locker. He had a reputation to uphold, and rescuing nerds from unpleasant situations was not one of his jobs, however accidentally it had temporarily become one.

Leading Anderson across the floor at a brisk clip, Kurt halted outside his own locker before turning the dial and opening it, carding through his after-practice clothing carefully until he came across a pair of his least flashy black shorts and a white shirt. Closing his eyes in momentary regret that he was handing over his things, he grabbed one of his towels and a bottle of his own shampoo before sweeping the locker shut and leading the way to the showers, depositing all but the shampoo on the bench just outside the showers.

Handing the bottle off to Anderson, he said, "Don't over-do it. It's not like your hair gel."

"Noted." Glancing at the pile on the bench and then back at Kurt (and why did his hazel eyes have to be so _intense_; Kurt would never be able to keep his focus if he kept looking like that), he asked, "Anything else?"

"You have ten minutes," Kurt said, padding off to the end of the lockers and disappearing around the corner. Everyone at McKinley knew he was gay – even Anderson had to – but he wasn't about to ogle him in the showers. He could almost feel the breath of relief that Anderson exhaled when he finally rounded the corner, confirming Kurt's theory that if there was anything worse in Anderson's mind than being thrown in a dumpster, it was being ogled by Kurt Hummel.

Resolving not to care, Kurt planted himself on a bench, pulled out his phone, and sent out a vague text to Quinn to stop her from yelling the entire practice via phone at him. There was no point in showing up now – Sylvester would only snap at him before sending him away – but it still rubbed him the wrong way to be missing practice. He never missed practice. Not even when he had the flu and felt like death itself.

He had a reputation to maintain. It was that simple.

Impatient, he prowled back down the same path that he had come, about to snap at Anderson to hurry up to diffuse his own tension when he froze, jaw slightly agape.

There were bruises, half a dozen of them at least, scattered across Anderson's back, some a fresh, dark purple and others yellowing around the edges. Kurt couldn't pull his gaze away as he counted them – nine – before Anderson turned, sensing his gaze, and stilled.

He had Kurt's towel wrapped around his waist, his hand almost falling from it in surprise before his head twitched as though he would examine his own back before he offered a rueful smile instead.

"I need a minute," he said apologetically, indicating the pile of clothes, his own soaked and hanging on the wall.

Ignoring him – and the immediate impulse to fix it because he _couldn't _and it was ridiculous to think that he could – Kurt demanded, very quietly, "Who was it?"

Laughing airily even though it came out stilted, like he didn't quite know how to be airy, Anderson replied, "Azimio and Karofsky, mostly. If you want to take down names, check the football directory." Looking down at the clothes, almost pleading with Kurt to leave, Anderson looked up at him and asked, "Did you change your mind about the clothes?"

Granting him the privacy that he was so clearly desperate for, Kurt sauntered down the row of lockers without a word, biting his lip against the equally irrational impulse to barter clothing for a more detailed explanation. He didn't know why he was so curious – why it even _mattered _– but he felt an ache in his gut that had nothing to do with guilt over Cheerios' practice, and he wanted to make it stop.

Anderson greeted him this time, presenting him with his own towel, neatly folded, and wearing his own clothes. Kurt took the towel and replaced it in his locker, frozen in place for a long moment before he blurted out, "I need a lab partner."

Anderson cocked his head to one side, intrigued. "Is that – "

"Yes or no."

Biting his lip, Anderson was silent for a long moment. Kurt shut the locker carefully and turned to face him, not missing the way he suppressed a smile as he said at last, "…Yes."

Kurt nodded, wordlessly walking him out to the parking lot and ignoring the stares as he, in full Cheerios uniform, for all intents and purposes escorted Blaine Anderson, bow tie extraordinaire, to his car.

Wearing his clothes.

"Not a word," he ordered Anderson, who mimed lock-and-keying his lips with another slight smile before he piled into the front seat of his Jeep.

The rumor mill was, of course, rampant the next morning.

Still, even peripherally aware of the impending consequences, Kurt couldn't help but feel pleased.


End file.
